137 Monday Musings - The tyranny of year ends

137 - The tyranny of year ends

In a lot of ways, each year that passes by is unique, bejewelled by the events that decorate it, by the footprints that one leaaves on it and what it leaves on us - and yet in a lot of ways each year is also similar to all others - in that each one finally, ultimately and permanently passes. After a few decades, years that have gone by become faceless, similar and difficult to distinguish from one another. When they begin, they are pregnent with possibilities and when they end they are one among the many, like faces in the crowd that we know exist but cannot make out in the blur. The year gets born in January and dies in december, never to be recovered, never to be distilled as something unique, remembered only through random events. Do i really remember 1988 as distinct from 1989 or any two years of my life? Can i really demarcate what began in 2001 and ended with it?  Do we really plan life year by year - If yes, i salute the methodical in us and if no, then what is the brohuha in the end of 2011 and the beginning of 2012!

Sometimes i believe, that the end and the beginning of another year is such an overrated event. In taking stock of the year, the way it will be done the whole of this week, i get an impression that every year is a project, which has to be accounted for at the end of the measuring period. In measuring time as a linear construct, wtih a beginning and an end, so much angst and stress gets generated in the pursuit of salvaging what lies between the beginning and the end. I wish there was a better measure of time, something that leaves more to celebrate and less to regret. Yes, i want to make the best of the time i have got, pack in the most in the suitcase i am given, but i want to do it at my will, my pace and my comfort - not with the sword of damocles that hangs on my neck, not under duress and pressure. Yes i understand that fulfillment will come at making every moment worthy, but sometimes fulfillment also comes in going slow, in less, in moderation and in thoughtfullness, rather than a mindless frenzy for more. I love driving slow so that i can see and enjoy the countryside. I want to experience the year as my muse, not as a tyrant.

So yes, this is my last musing for 2011. I should have mused more often than i managed, i missed many mondays and i missed many experiences, insights and thoughts that should have converted themselves into cogent and coherent musings. Many of them are permanently lost, in a way many died untimely for want of adequate intellectual and emotional noursihment, and yet i would want to believe many are just hibernating - waiting for the right conditions to spring to life. Going by the xperience of the years gone by, I doubt i will remember 2011 as a unique year with an unique identity, despite many audacious attempts at doing something new, but i will definitely be at peace with myself in the wisdom, that the world has not come to an end. Its just a meausre, that has its moment of glory, but at the end of it all, its just a measure of time, not the meausre of life.

And that still rocks.

Guru

136 Monday Musings The folly of Certitudes

136- The folly of certitudes

The other day I got to deliver a talk (calling it a lecture would so much denigrate it) at my B school alma mater. When I was told to talk on 'Career Management', a part of me went stiff, for in my own mind, I am probably the last person suitable and able to to guide youngsters on an issue that has plagued my own journey for so long, and with so little clarity.

My Professor chose this subject for me because in her assessment my journey, brownianesque in a way, had not followed a traditional course. I had graduated in pharmacy, and then studied marketing during my management course, started off as a product manager with a pharmaceutical company, but soon drifted again to hunt for fortunes in the sales training business in a life insurance company. The questions I was asked were pretty predictable for the audience who was at that stage of their career where such questions do corner a large proportion of their existential angst- How to chose subjects, how often one must switch jobs, how to make money fast, what are the pitfalls of going entrepreneurial, how easy or difficult it is to change functions or kind of jobs so on an so forth. I can only imagine how hollow and theoretical and how utterly patronizing my answers must have appeared to them, going by how they felt when I used to sit on that side of the auditorium.

I have played that interaction of an hour or so many times in my mind and have desperately wanted to change the answers, like one distressingly wants to change the answers after appearing for an exam where he knows that he could have done better. How much more sense I wish I had made to them, given them a sense of script that I had before embarking on my journey, script which they were probably searching for, a formula they probably had imagined I had before I took my call and got it right, in their eyes at least!. If only they knew better.

Restlessness can be a plague to the soul. Being permanently in search of that thing, which would give the elixir called satisfaction, a sense of completion, of having arrived - and then having reached that milestone, that terrifying existential question - is this what one was looking for, making one question the worth of all those years, a sense of waste and emptiness engulfing your sense of being. Only those cursed by that sense of restlessness can identify with that sinking feeling, when on the face of it all the pieces of the puzzle have fallen into place, when on the face of it, life has just fallen into place. Each time this abyss faces squarely on your face, the clock has been reset at 00.00hrs.  

I have asked myself many times over, as I mull over the confidence with which I answered those questions - did I really have a plan, did I really take a calculated decision, completely aware and informed, was I really sure of what I was doing? I am sure of the answer - Certainly NOT. One acts on hunch, on instinct, on something deep beneath the diaphragm that is screaming that this is to be done, that this MUST be done, for it FEELS right. Surely not a scientific algorithm that one will risk the ship to, not a map but only a compass, to borrow a phrase. I am not even sure that those punts have been right, but at least i feel OK that I played the hand that way.

The best of advises come from the worst of people and I have this nagging feeling that someone with a penchant for losing his way being made the cartographer! But being lost in this time and day of certitudes can be a virtue. In any case there are others who are much more lost but living much more fulfilling lives. Amir Khusro says

"Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar"

(Strange is the way of love, only he reaches the shore who has the courage to drown) 

Guru 

135- Monday Musings – Murder of an artist

135- Monday Musings – Murder of an artist

An old quote keeps coming back to me and it goes like this - 'If before 30 you are not a communist you don’t have an heart and if after 30 you are still a communist you don’t have brains'. On the same lines I am led to believe that there is an artist in most of us before 30. After that usually life takes over.

Rockstar, the new movie on the block, is a fantastic watch for the many nuances it carries with it - there is something in it for everyone. For the star crossed lovers there is that pain of a love that shall never see its fulfillment, cheated either by circumstances or death. For the artist there is this search for the elusive inspiration that will transform a gawky teenager to a raging sensation and when that poignant artistic inspiration fired by human angst does arrive, it does so with a deep sense of pain - a pain which at the same time is the progenitor of the artistic brilliance and the one thing that will not allow him to enjoy the fruits of his success. How tragic and how moving.

History is dominated with the tales of pained geniuses, so much so that it is unthinkable to believe that artistic brilliance can be even attempted in a life bereft of tragedy and angst. There are reporters of art, who write, appreciate, read, perform and enjoy - they are like the moon, glowing on borrowed resplendence and then there are creators of art - one who creates, designs, writes, essays, and portrays. It seems that the latter has a special penchant for agony, grief and suffering - they almost thrive on it, live on it. Take the agony away and you have taken away the soul from their work. Suffering has created more music, more literature, more poetry, and more art than anything else.

Suffering is hugely personal construct. One can, quite literally, choose to suffer. Most of us go through the usual grind, give and take a few minor details- heart breaks, coming of age, finding the calling in life, directionlessness, confusion over choices, dealing with the consequences of it - so on and so forth. Some deal with the roller coaster and become successful. Others take it to heart and become artists. The latter become successful and famous in the eyes of the former because there is something uplifting and autobiographical in the tale of every artist and his art. This is mostly because those of us who made safer choices, dumbed and numbed our personal agonies, let the artist in us die, sometimes thankfully so, but find echoes of those memories in every story of a celebrated artist - someone who we could have been.

Ah! Such is that bitter sweet world of 'could have been’; such is its angst that it can fuel the artist in you. Wait a bit more and then life will take over. Will it, yet again is the million dollar question.

Guru 

134 Monday Musings - Saada Haq

134- Monday Musings - Saada Haq

If movie songs were to be any indicators of the spirit of the times, inspired by or inspiring the tumults of that period and in the process becoming anthems, then gear up to listen to 'Sadda Haq...Ithe rakh' (Give me my rights..NOW) not only from on air and in the dim lit pubs and bars but also on sundry social and corporate occasions alike for a long long time. I can think of a few more in the last few years which had acquired a deep symbolism and shouldered the onus of describing the angst and imagination of the times they became popular.

'Papa kehte hain bada naam karega' was a gentle reminder in the 90's of the huge burden of expectation that the youth shouldered and how the he was clearly ready to chart a course of his own by refusing to become and engineer or a businessman, rather finding solace in the elixir of love. The same actor exactly a decade later gate crashed into the imagination of the carefree youth to move away from the beaten path by announcing 'ham hain naye, andaaz kyon ho purana'. India was changing by the end of the last century and the exhort 'badle duniya, badalne do...hum apni dhun me chalte jayen..hum hain naye..andaaz kyon ho purana' became the ziet gist of the times. Dancing to its lyrics in a sense liberated the generation from the shackles of the old dreams and old methods. The generation had announced its arrival in style.

Another khan in another path breaking movie united disparate groups of people to its war cry 'Chak De', a phrase which has no equivalent in the English language, but which would broadly mean 'Let’s rock'. Any group of people, community or gathering who wanted a point to be proven, a war cry to unite all towards one common task and who wanted a insurmountable problem to be solved, a herculean aspiration to be chased, had to just play 'Chak de' and the spirits would soar. In yet another time when a youth lost in his search for identity, so typical of the age across times, and yet to typical of particularly these, finally finds his calling, not surprisingly sung on high notes 'payega jo lakhya hai tera' from the movie Lakhsya. It is difficult to say with certainty that it right before or right after that we found the youth being so sure about what they wanted from life - in being floaters they were exercising the same choice that fired their souls in wanting to make it big in corporate or business or politics.

Saada Haq, not only in its lyrics but also in its video, depicting Kashmir to North East, farmers to communal rights, is a reminder of the impatience of the times, where no one is willing to wait anymore and any longer. They want their haq, what is their natural and national right, NOW. Intentions won’t suffice, delivery does. The message loud and clear - Don’t suffocate us into slots, don't slice and divide us on samaaj and riwaj, keep your sermonizing and patronizing to yourself if you cannot handle what you preach, just....well..'Saada Haq..Ithe rakh'. The song has all the ingredients to become the theme of the times, the ultimate expression of an impatient people on the edge, almost a warning to the powers to be. Don’t mess or it will be messy. The song has been getting into my bones slowly but surely, and going by its popularity, it is clear that other bones are equally pervious to its uplifting quality. The echoes of saada haq will only intensify in the days to come.

Movies then no doubt are such an addictive craft. They say, there is at least one story in each one us. I am growing to believe there is at least one song and one movie in each one of us. Go ahead - write it, record it, shoot it. You have at least one reader, one listening, one viewer ready. 

Guru 

133-The Journey

133-The Journey

This diwali vacation I travelled quite a bit to the faraway nooks and corners of my home state Jharkhand and once again enjoyed the highly nuanced face of India – sometimes a bit disturbing if my urban tastes and sensibilities forced me to judge, but mostly enjoyable for the sheer richness of diversity that was on offer.  India lives in many decades - Some in 2010's, some in the early 2000, some in the 1990s and certainly but unfortunately some even in the 70-80's. Each decade has its own sights and sounds, peculiar to the times they represented which became the liet motif of those times - and fossilized over the layers of time, lending them identity and signature. This trip gave me the unparalleled joy of living those sights, smells and sounds yet again - sometimes eerie, but joyous nevertheless.

Post Office Gomia, in District Giridih, somewhere in the north-East of Jharkhand, right next to the Bengal border, is in the heart of mining belt, the hotbed of naxalite activity, and the destination of my journey. The 200 kms drive was an ensemble of a variety of experiences, often unrelated, but in warm harmony with each other – giving it a collage like diversity and appeal.

Crater sized potholes break the pace of the journey to no more than a drag, while rich green hues of paddy fields mark the countryside till as far as eyes can see. On the horizon is a faint boundary of the hills that puts an end to the audacity of sight. The roadside dhaba in eastern India is quite different from its flamboyant north-Indian cousin. Its tiled or thatched, mud paved, surely dirty and opens to the fields in its backyard. The tea is milky, syrupy and very sweet, the food however is fresh. We crossed the monthly fair for all the nearby villages as we reached the infamous town of Purulia. What a sight waited for us - 3 kilometers of the fair on both sides, cattle being traded and loaded on cranky trucks, bullock carts blocking the traffic endlessly, items of living made out of bamboo or hay that I never imagined people used anymore lined on both sides.

Darkness descended while we were a good 20 kms away from the destination - a twenty nasty kilometers cutting right across the heart of naxalite territory and passing over the 30 year old Tenughat dam on the Damodar River. It was perhaps the longest 20 kms of my life; the pitch darkness, made scarier by the stillness - a state of no sound exploding within your head, aggravated by the dense forests on both sides. As one passed on the road on the dam, a near vacuum of nothingness engulfs you on both sides - invisible in the dark, starless night but hundreds of meters of precipice palpable and felt through your bones. Such a night has its own smell - fresh, elevating, cold, very grassy, but blunted with the smell of fear it gets marinated with, so much so that one has to strain to enjoy it. As we descended on the other side, much to our relief, we noticed the first glimmer of faint yellow lights.

The day in these parts begins with sunrise and ends with sunset - something that is quite unfathomable to those who are used to extending the day beyond the sunset, aided and abetted by the glare of CFL and neon. Mornings are misty, grass rich with the overnight dew and the dozens of roosters at the forefront of the hamlets community alarm system. October evenings descends early - as if the preparation for the evening begins even before the afternoon is over, as one is acutely aware that darkness will bring the day to an unceremonious end. Early mornings and evenings there is a layer of smoke in the air, of burning raw coal from the nearby mines and of dried leaves, obnoxious and poisnous, but for those who might have lived on it, its comforting and familiar. It adds to the feeling of being at home. 

The railway station is breathtaking in its antiquity -Two platforms, one each for the Up and Down trains. One small tea shop doubles up as a two-item-menu-snack counter serving samosas and boiled eggs ONLY. The lonely pan shop has beedis and non filter cigarettes stacked for display. At 8 o clock in the night when the last passenger train passes through the station, the station momentarily flickers back into activity for 5-6 passengers that will alight and the same number that will board, before things close for the night. The dark engulfs till the roosters to get to work the next day.

 And the only thought that comes to my mind as I return, is Ah! So many roads, so many journeys - and such a short life.

Guru

132- Rediscovering Premchand.

132- Rediscovering Premchand.

As i opened my old school trunk, just as i always do during the annual pilgrimage to my village during diwali vacations, which houses infinitely more treasure than its humble capacity, i chanced upon the 8 novels by Munshi Premchand - the giant of Hindi literature. In hindsight, why did i read them as a school kid, when i possesed niether the linguistic proficiency to understand him, nor the maturity to comprehend it, still baffles me. Knowing myself, i am sure it would have been some early strains of narcisissm or a crass display of showing off. That not withstanding, i decided to re-read 'Godaan' (Cow - donation) - his last novel and perhaps the most brilliant one.

Godaan has three broad set of characters, each depicting the then socio-cultural mileu of 1900-1930's. Each of these set of characters depict the complex web of social relations that existed within thier classes and also with each other - carrying with them hundreds of years of social history, its peculiarities, the colossal sanction for exploitation availabale to higher castes and classes and the early signs of redemption that an individual initiative could provide.

Hori is a poor small farmer who is caught in a web of usurious debt to pay off the cost of everyday existence like buying seeds, marrying children, bringing up an extended family and who personifies the helpless life of an Indian farmer - emboldened by hope of good times but razed down by oppressive social and economic circumstances. Dhania is his loudmouth, bitter, complaining but well meaning wife, who is burdened by Hori's sense of duty, innocence and naivete, but who does not hesitate to back him up in the most trying of circumstances, particularly those which were morally right but socially blasphemous, like giving shelter to his unmarried pregnant daughter in law and literally selling off thier young daughter to a much older but rich groom.  The plot is thickened and brought to life by a broad set of characters. The money lenders of all castes, the patwari, the village priest, sahukar, so on and so forth, who had money but no moral compunctions, who broke all social laws and sought comfort in the shudhikaran(purification) ceremonies avaliable to them but not to the poor. The sense of outrage and tragedy is difficult to miss in the turn of events. Hori has but one ambition - to see a cow in his house.

The second set of characters revolve around the Raisaab - the feudal lord who owns the villages, has the right to tax them, ask for gifts and donations - only to maintain the standard of life and pretence that is traditionally the forte of the class of Raisaabs. While the politics of pre indepence india gets depicted as a sub plot, it wholesomely bares the hypocrisy of this class - who are torn between thier traditional penchant to exploit and yet participate in the lofty ideals of liberation of the downtrodden. The helplessness of Raisaab to let go of the comforts of his stature with the accompanying rights to  exploit his aasaamis (constituency)and to still be seen as THE RAISAAB is comical but piognant.

The third set of characters include Mr Mehta - the fiery idealist, professor of Philosophy, who is driven by a higher purpose in his life, bound by social duty, uncorrupted by money and charms and who has clear views about the role of women in the society. The second character is the charming, beautiful and educated Miss Malati, who has no compunctions in using her education and charms to get her way in a manner unthinkable for women then, but who goes through her own discovery of ideals, morals and sense of social and national duty in the pursuit of the hesitant Mr Mehta, who is the only one who refuses to be bewitched by her charms in the beginning.  This is an engrossing depiction of the tussle between the traditional role of women, thier angst in the fight for liberation and thier discovery of meaning somewhere in between.

Godaan is a must read for many reasons - again and again. Vernacular literature gives more insight into the complex history of our society, more authentic, more lively and more nuanced. It opens us to a world that English literature may not be able to do ever. As Hori dies on the last page and the everyone cries for a Godaan - the ultimate daan for a chaste Hindu, Dhania cries, gives off a thread of cotton as daan - that being the only material possession they are left with - alongside Hori, a part of you dies, 2011 not withstanding.

Guru

131- Monday Musings - Run

131- Monday Musings - Run

Around three weeks ago, i ran my second marathon, called the Kaveri trail marathon in the Rangapetta bird sanctuary, sandwiched between the cities of Mysore and Srirangapatnam. I am a late bloomer as a long distance runner, as anyone who has known me for some time will testify and so writing about my experiences of long distance running is particularly significant and cathartic.

Kaveri trail marathon was different from the Mumbai marathon in many ways. It was a natural trail on the banks of an irrigation canal and through the bird sanctuary. As a little over a thousand runners ran through the lush suganrcane fields, thick foliage, with massive trees as bystanders, under the canopy of clear pristine sapphire blue sky, it was difficult not to be carried away with the surreal settings. Every mile or so farmers looked quizzically at the runners and bullock carts got stuck on a trail which had only that much space. If one would not have been overwhelmed by the challenge of staying on course for 21kms, one would have liked to pitch a tent and just tried saying 'statue'!

I came back and watched a brilliant video on the net by Christopher Mcdoughal, who opines that mankind as a species was born to run. He uses anecdotes, historical and sociological evidences to claim that man was quite literally 'born to run'; that running is a natural human state - being stationary or sedentary is abnormal to our sense of being. He uses pre civilisational conditions, and present day African and Mexican tribes (who are the closest to the pre civilisational conditions that we can find today) to suggest that running comes naturally for human beings like breathing and the ability and habit of running has played a huge role in our journey of existence. I dont know if i all that he says can stand scientific scrutiny - and i hope it does, but i can surely identify with the the joys of running that he describes. When you run, that is the only thing that you do. The world and its worries recedes. The mind clears. The soul sings. Every muscle in the limbs make its presence felt. For those like me for whom running does not come naturally and have to summon every ounce of energy and courage to stay the course, running is also an experience of deep personal victory over limitations of the mind and body. 

So to everyone who does not run, i recommend what Christopher Mcdoughal says - Running is the natural state of being. It may look impossible to begin with but the end of it all, its a deeply moving and uplifting experience.

Run - as if your life depends on it.

Guru